“Your son is tougher than the squad commanders at boot camp, huh?” I said to Grandpa, after which Dad shoved a few forms into my hand as well.

“What, I’m being drafted again too? Last time I checked I already served my stint in Golani,” I said.

“Employment and bank forms,” he explained. “I’m guessing you haven’t noticed that you’ve been working for two months without getting paid.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your salary hasn’t been transferred to your bank account. You’ve been volunteering at the call center, which is nice of you, but not what I’d call financially sound. Go ahead, what do you care, it’s always good to fill out forms,” he said, and meant it. Dad was the one person in the world who liked bureaucracy. I don’t mean he learned to live with it. He liked bureaucracy the way he liked pistachio ice cream and organized tours of Kibbutz Kfar Blum. Something about the meticulous order, the unambiguous questions, soothed him. I filled everything out in a few seconds, but Grandpa took Dad’s rebuke to heart and carefully considered each and every sentence.

“Does this form also cover injuries sustained under operational circumstances?” Grandpa asked. “War, covert missions, etc.”

“I’m not sure a rusty stapler falls under the category of operational circumstances,” Dad said with a smile.

“What stapler?” Grandpa puzzled, turning his gaze to me. “Golani is no joke. You more than anyone should know!”

Dad and I laughed. Grandpa didn’t understand why.

“Who’d recruit you to Golani?”

“They already did. They’ve opened a new training course,” he replied, and went back to the forms.

“What are you talking about?” I asked him, hoping he’d give some reasonable explanation before Dad lost it. Grandpa told us that once he finished signing all the forms, the sorting officer patted him on the back and said that a man like him could make an even more significant contribution. That it wasn’t every day a veteran in such great shape reenlisted.

“And you’re telling me you said yes?” Dad asked.

“Of course. If I’m called upon to serve my country, who am I to say no? The nice fellow said I was born to be an infantryman. Even said I had the makings of an officer. Can you believe it, Yuli? We could both end up platoon commanders!”

“You’re actually talking to me about Bahad 1? Officers school??” Dad cut him off and shifted his gaze to me. “Could you please explain to me how senior citizens are enlisting to Golani and I’m the only one who thinks the world’s gone mad?”

Grandpa took a sip of his coffee. He tried to divert the conversation by mentioning there was some of Grandma Miriam’s soup left in the freezer, and that we were welcome to stay for dinner.